


Beauty in Imperfection

by brazenedMinstrel



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: ? it's Maiev so that's inevitable, Blood, F/F, Fluff, Malfurion is died in the teldrassil battle and is therefore not mentioned, Not super gory but still, Scars, Wound healing, let them be gay, post-teldrassil disaster, slight angst, warning: kinda graphic descriptions of wound healing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-11
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-10-26 09:56:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17743712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brazenedMinstrel/pseuds/brazenedMinstrel
Summary: Maiev is a stubborn ass who doesn't get her injuries treated. Tyrande knows.Let’s say that Saurfang’s axe struck Malf a little bit worse okay? He’s dead, therefore we shall not speak of the mad furry man in this fic. Also Tyrande is a bit OOC? Idk, I’ve never paid much attention to her exact character in WoW.Kudos and comments are much appreciated!My Ko-fi, please donate to this hungry writer: https://ko-fi.com/Y8Y3PEOH





	Beauty in Imperfection

 

The briefing was over. All events of today’s battle, rehashed and summarized for the unit leaders. As they returned to their tents, Tyrande sighed deeply. One face, or rather, one very recognizable suit of armor had been noticeably absent. Her newly appointed leader to all forces, Maiev Shadowsong. 

 

The Warden was nowhere to be seen. When Tyrande turned to one of her subordinates for information, she heard that Maiev had been injured in battle. Yet she was not amongst the other wounded soldiers in the healer’s tents. Now slightly concerned, the Night Warrior made her way to the outskirts of the temporary night elven settlement, where she knew that Shadowsong had her own quarters. 

 

It weighed more heavily on her mind than she wanted. Like she had Elune’s mighty powers roiling through her body ever since she had become the Night Warrior, Maiev seemed to be driven by her own lust for vengeance. 

 

Maiev, the quiet observer. Ever present and always listening and strategizing. Only speaking when she needed to. But an outcast amongst the night elves. Tyrande knew that, in this darkest hour, Maiev’s prowess was a most important asset. And so, she could not suddenly disappear, and strangely break her pattern of vigilance at all hours of day. 

 

Her tent was smaller than most. Whereas the other unit leaders had grandiose set-ups with support beams, fully functional arcane wards and guards stationed outside, Maiev’s was a simple canvas shelter, only fastened to the ground with ropes and pegs. It was high enough so the tall Warden could stand upright.

 

Carefully, Tyrande opens the slit in the canvas on the front, and steps into a small space, separated from the rest of the tent with a ragged green curtain. Immediately, before she could call out the Warden’s name, a rustling noise sounds within the tent, followed by Maiev’s gravelly voice. 

 

‘Get out. Or don’t come in, if you’re outside.’ 

 

With elves like her, Tyrande knew that covering her message in compliments was no good. No, she had to get to the point. ‘Why were you absent by the briefing? As commander of the night elf forces, you should have been there.’ 

 

A silent Darnassian curse follows from within. ‘I had things do attend to.’ 

 

‘Like your injury?’ Tyrande inquires. ‘The healers informed me that you have not visited them either.’ 

 

Finished with speaking to her forces’ commander from behind a curtain, she shoves it aside and enters the main room of the tent. Just quickly enough to see Maiev shove her helmet over her face. ‘Should I brief you now?’ 

 

‘Not necessary, I saw what happened. We cleaned another area from leftover Forsaken,’ the Warden says, turning to the High Priestess. 

 

There is a strange limp in her step. It looks as if her left leg has been hit in the battle. 

 

Maiev cocks her helmeted head and waves at the entrance to the tent. ‘Don’t you have things to do? Duties? Better things than bothering me now the battle’s over?’ 

 

Circumventing the blunt questions completely, Tyrande says: ‘You need to get a healer to look at your leg. I cannot have a limping commander in my army tomorrow.’ 

 

‘It’s not a grave wound. I can let it heal naturally, it won’t hinder me tomorrow.’ The Warden steps closer, so the two elves stand chest to chest. She is a good foot taller than Tyrande. The added length of the plume on her helmet makes her tower over the Night Warrior. Yet Tyrande does not flinch. She narrows her darkened eyes and squares her jaw in defiance. 

 

‘I shall repeat it, since all that metal you encase your head it seems to have numbed your hearing: you limp, therefore you are injured enough for it to hinder your movements.’ With a sharp finger, she taps trice on Maiev’s chestplate to accent her words. ‘Get a healer. You weren’t this unwise when you were still a priestess, many centuries ago.’ 

 

‘Won’t you leave me be?’ The Warden sighs as she staggers to the small wooden table in the tent. It is cluttered with maps, dirty plates and her large glaive. ‘I’m not up for discussions about the past today.’ 

 

‘The past is behind us, Maiev.’ 

 

‘Is it? Then why don’t you go and do…  _ whatever  _ a Night Warrior is supposed to do?’ 

 

‘Because clearly you’re in a… in some state of pain. And you are much too stubborn for your own good. For the good of the warriors you must lead into battle tomorrow. We spoke about the past, there is no need-  Maiev!’ 

 

As the Warden had reached for her cape, which laid fallen and crumpled on the ground, her leg had given out. She falls onto her knees, grunting in pain. Her head is on level with the tabletop, and she rests the front of her helmet against it, muttering obscenities in Darnassian. With a groan, she rights herself up. Her left leg shakes, nearly unable to bear her weight. Tyrande is with her in a split second, slinging Maiev’s arm over her shoulders and steering towards the low wooden bed in the back of the tent. 

 

Maiev’s breathing is laboured within her helmet. Despite this, she tries to shrug Tyrande off and walk on her own. This defiance nearly causes the both of them to collapse onto the canvas floor of the tent. 

 

While managing to remain standing and settle Maiev on the edge of the bed, Tyrande exasperatedly says: ‘Fine, I shall heal you here. Let me get my equipment. Don’t do anything rash in the meantime.’ 

 

Even though she remains silent, Maiev inclines her head ever so slightly. In hindsight, Tyrande thinks, it could just have been her head sagging to her chest in fatigue, or pain. 

 

When she returns to the tent with her arms full of potions, salves and bandages, the Warden is still sitting on the bed in the exact same position. The metal of her armor pieces chinks against each other in time with the woman’s shaky breaths. Something in Tyrande’s chest twinges at the sight of the crestfallen warrior. She is unsure whether she needs to blame any of it on herself, but Maiev’s distress, as quiet as it may be, is the most fragile emotion that the staunch Warden has ever shown to her.

 

As Maiev reaches for the buckle of her cuisses, Tyrande lays her hand over the metal glove. ‘Your helmet first,’ she says in a soft tone, assuming the calmer role of healer over her Night Warrior persona. 

 

‘Not necessary for the wound,’ Maiev grates, voice tight with pain. 

 

‘Well I would like to see your face. It is a good indicator, for when I’m causing you too much pain.’ 

 

The helmet shakes from left to right and the gauntlet tightens into a fist underneath the priestess’ hand. ‘No, you wouldn’t like to.’ 

 

‘Please take your helmet off, Maiev. I am not easily scared.’ Tyrande tries to get a glimpse of the face within the metal, but she only sees Maiev’s glowing eyes through the eyeholes. They close in a long blink and open wide when Tyrande places a hand on either side of the helmet, just underneath the gilded horns on top. The Warden’s breath stutters as she lifts the metal a few inches, baring part of the neck. From their shared times long ago, Tyrande knows that Maiev’s skin is lighter than most night elves’. Naturally, this is still the case. A thin, rounded scar is placed where the Warden’s neck meets the layer of padding underneath her gorget.

 

A clawed gauntlet comes to rest on her left hand. Even though Maiev tries to pull it off her helmet, there is no real strength behind her movement. ‘Stop,’ she rasps. ‘It’s unsightly.’ 

 

‘Surely we have both seen worse things,’ Tyrande says. 

 

The glove falls back to the edge of the bed. Maiev’s head sags, allowing the helmet to be taken off completely, freeing the Warden’s silver hair. Instantly, the she shakes it so that it falls over the rest of her face. Tyrande places the helmet on the ground next to the bed and casts a gaze at the shaggy waterfall of whitish hair. She gasps. ‘By the Gods… oh, by Elune…’ 

 

The right ear is nearly halved. Ripped forcefully, most likely. An ugly scar, tattered and rough is all that remains at the upper edge of what was one a proud long ear. There is a piece missing from the left one, too. Out of protective instinct, Tyrande ghosts her fingers over the scar. While Maiev jolts beneath her, hissing in pain as her leg wound is jarred by the movement, the ear itself does not move, rendered stiff by the scar tissue. 

 

With new worry lacing her careful hands, Tyrande reaches out for the hair. Lifting the silver strands out of Maiev’s face. And once more, she gasps at the sight. When Maiev was a priestess, her features had never been soft. However, she had looked dignified, with her sharp chin and high cheekbones. Her eyes had been bright, yet watchful. 

 

Three prominent scars slice across her face. One runs from her hairline downwards, splitting her left eyebrow and the tattoo around that same eye. A second one crosses her face in the other direction. Starting at the bridge of her nose, where the impact broke the bone and the healing had formed a small bump in the bone, it goes down over her cheek. Splitting at the upper lip, one track cleaves Maiev’s lip in two, the other trailing further over her cheek. The third facial scar is broader, starting underneath her left cheekbone. A slash across the face, with an object blunter than a sword. It has taken a part off the tip of her nose and left nostril. 

 

Wordlessly, Tyrande turns Maiev’s head in her direction. She’s nearly kneeling by the Warden’s legs now, potions and bandages forgotten on the floor. ‘The things you have sacrificed…’ she whispers, feeling a plume of guilt bloom in her chest. 

 

‘And what have you given?’ Maiev rasps, completing the demon hunters’ common saying. 

 

Then she winces, and Tyrande is reminded of her healer’s duty. 

 

While Maiev is still sitting, she undoes the rest of the Warden’s armor. Pauldrons, vambraces and clawed gauntlets are put besides the bed, together with the padding underneath. As she undoes the chestplate, Maiev gasps sharply. Whether it is in relief or in pain, Tyrande cannot say. 

 

‘Lower back,’ Maiev clarifies. 

 

The padded vest is discarded too, and the priestess soon spots the blood on it. A bloom of red on the backside, as the Warden had mentioned. When she quickly checks, she sees that Maiev’s shirt is partially stuck to the wound, thus she cannot see the extent of the injury. 

 

Despite her breathing getting heavier, Maiev displays no signs of threatening to faint. So Tyrande works quickly on the remainder of the armor, yet does not rush too much. She frees the uninjured right leg first, then the left. 

 

When the tasset comes away from Maiev’s thigh, a larger blot of blood on the padding alarms Tyrande. Wasting no time, she cuts through the leather pants underneath with her dagger, discarding the entire left leg. The Warden grunts in pain when the edge of the leathers rub over the wound. She grips the edge of the bed and her breath comes out shakily. 

 

A cut runs halfway around her leg, nearly along the entire length of her thigh.  _ No wonder you could barely stand,  _ Tyrande thinks. 

 

It is deep, slicing through muscle and baring the red filaments. Yet luckily, it doesn’t go as deep as the bone. ‘Lie down on your stomach,’ Tyrande commands, as gently as she can. 

 

With a hiss of pain from between clenched jaws, Maiev lays down on the sheets of the bed. Tyrande puts a folded towel underneath her hips and waist to soak up the still running blood from her two injuries. She cuts through the leathers at the hip on both sides, doing away with them to better treat the wounds. Maiev tenses and says something indiscernible into the pillow. 

 

Prompted to lay a comforting hand onto her shoulder, Tyrande assures her: ‘No need to worry. I have… centuries of experience with the healing arts, as you know.’ 

 

‘Yes. I’m aware.’ Maiev turns her head to the priestess. ‘I’m not used to…  _ this,  _ though.’ She lifts one hand to gesture at the arm on her shoulder. 

 

_ This.  _ Maiev has a way with words. Tyrande is unsure if she means comfort, care, gentleness, understanding, appreciation for her scars, vulnerability or a combination of those things. 

 

After one last squeeze to the brave Warden’s shoulders, she returns to the injuries. The wound on Maiev’s back isn’t oozing blood quite as heavily, so she focuses on the leg first. Calling to the powers of Elune coursing through her body, she works up several streams of healing magic. They curl around her right arm, culminating in her palm, sparking and twirling. She presses two fingers to the edge of the wound. The arcane flows into the flesh beneath, filtering into the severed threads of muscle. 

 

Maiev grasps the sheets, knuckles turning white under the strain. She presses her forehead into the pillow with muted pained groans as the magic starts repairing the deepest parts of the cut. When the arcane has seeped deeply enough into the flesh to no longer require the source from her hand, Tyrande wipes her bloodied digits on the towel and picks a potion from the lot that she brought. After uncorking the bottle, she presses the opening to Maiev’s lips and tilts it so she can drink. 

 

‘T-thanks,’ the injured Warden rasps, as the potion slowly takes effect and the pain is dimmed. 

 

‘There is no need,’ Tyrande softly replies.

 

Turning back to attend to the wound, she is mildly alarmed by the amount of blood that still flows from the laceration. There is no padding to soak it up now, as it is left to run over Maiev’s light purple skin. While she knows that the arcane will heal the blood vessels before lethal amounts are lost, she cannot risk weakening the Warden for the battle of tomorrow. So she grabs another potion, a small glass bottle with deep blue liquid within. Maiev veers away as soon as she sees it, shaking her head. 

 

‘You’re not giving me that,’ she growls. 

 

‘Both of us know, however much you may deny it, that the blood loss will affect you tomorrow. Your powers will be dampened too much. This will help your body replenish the lost blood much more quickly.’ 

 

For a moment, it seems as if Maiev will keep her lips pressed against each other like a pouty child. Then she chooses the reasonable, albeit distasteful, way out and quickly drinks the bitter draught. After sinking back into the pillow, she hisses an obscenity that Tyrande can only half hear. 

 

Shaking her head, she turns to the other injury. Since the wound on her back is not quite as deep, it does not require the arcane treatment. The Night Warrior applies a balm around the edges, soothing and warming. ‘What has caused your injuries, Maiev?’ she asks. 

 

‘Forsaken. Sturdier than I thought they’d be,’ the Warden says with a sigh. ‘I thought I’d crushed one with my foot, but it was still… mobile. Clung to my leg and slipped a blade between my armor.’ She flexes said leg, wincing as the spellwork sparks within the wound at the movement. ‘Another one got to me while I pried it off me. They’re quick too, for corpses.’ 

 

‘I have noticed,’ Tyrande bitterly says, thinking back to the night she killed one of the Val’kyr. Then, with utmost care in her words and movements, she reaches up to Maiev’s silver locks, brushing the scar on her forehead. ‘Were you… completely on guard?’ 

 

When the tired warrior does not answer, she takes it as a confirmation.  _ Maiev… you were distracted,  _ she thinks.  _ Even you cannot take your mind off the ones who fell in these dark times.  _ It is something to speak about, surely, but not at this moment. 

 

She finishes the layer of soothing salve around the wound in Maiev’s back. After applying a layer of herbs to avoid infection and dressing the injury in a neat white bandage, she instructs Maiev to lie on her back. With surprising strength, the Warden does so, now unbothered by the pain thanks to the potion. 

 

To bandage the other wound, Tyrande bends the injured leg at the knee and collects the healing magic in the palm of her hand. It evaporates as she closes her fist. While whispering a quick, thankful prayer to Elune, she admires her own handiwork. Only the skin is still open, the deep slice in Maiev’s leg has been largely repaired. She bandages the wound too, only vaguely aware of the fact that Maiev has propped herself up on her underarms and watches her. After giving a soft squeeze to the toned calf of the leg, and taking in a quicker breath than is strictly professional, she removes the towel from underneath Maiev’s waist. There is a rather large spot of blood on it, most likely ruining the towel forever. She wraps the cut leathers into the towel and puts it near the entrance of the tent to discard later. 

 

It is a testament to Maiev’s strength that she sits up and tries to stand. Yet the Night Warrior stops her before she can put her bare feet onto the canvas. ‘It would not be wise to walk, so soon after the healing.’ 

 

‘And you think I’m wise? Thought you yelled something quite the opposite… at the Vault, years ago.’ Maiev twists her scarred mouth into a mockery of a laugh. 

 

‘Then lie down, stupid Warden.’ 

 

_ Sometimes it’s best to remedy stubbornness with more stubbornness,  _ Tyrande thinks as Maiev shifts back onto the bed with a sigh. When she goes outside to get rid of the bloodied towel, she hears the Warden quietly say something. Turning around, she spots Maiev once again sitting half upright, eyes downcast at the floor. Then she quickly shakes her head, silver locks obscuring her face. 

 

‘No… Nevermind,’ she mumbles.

 

Tyrande steps out of the tent, taking in a few deep breaths of the cool night air. The walk to the center of the camp is awkward to say the least. Despite no one commenting, she can feel the Sentinels’ looks burning in her back. After dumping the towel and stashing the remainder of her healing supplies in her own tent, she heads back to Maiev’s to check up on her. 

 

She’s eating a sober meal on the bed, resting the plate on her uninjured thigh. ‘I limped to the table, my foot didn’t touch the ground,’ she quips when Tyrande opens her mouth to berate her. 

 

The priestess shakes her head, laughing softly. She seats herself by the table and silently watches as Maiev finishes her meal. During that time, her eyes shift to the Warden’s toned arms a few times too many. She looks away with a cough. ‘I’m glad you’re healing well.’ 

 

‘It’s… it’s thanks to you,’ Maiev somewhat timidly points out. 

 

‘Yes, I suppose it is. But it is  _ you _ who allowed me to treat your injuries.’ 

 

‘You wouldn’t leave my tent. I could hardly shove the Night Warrior herself out of my door.’ 

 

‘Nor were you in any state to do so.’ 

 

‘I guess…’ Maiev sighs and places the plate next to her bed on the ground. 

 

‘Should I get one of your wardens to guard you in the night?’ Tyrande asks. 

 

It seems like Maiev caves in slightly, shoulders sagging and left ear drooping into her neck. 

 

‘No…’ she starts, hesitant and not looking at the priestess. ‘I was… while you were outside- I just - I was wondering if… please… you could stay?’ 

 

A blush creeps onto her cheeks, making her look more vulnerable than Tyrande had expected the Warden to be capable of. 

 

And so she nods. ‘Alright,’ she says gentilly. ‘Let me tell my guards that I shall stay here for the night.’ 

 

~~~~~

 

When she returns, closing the curtain to prevent the frigid night air form leaching into the rest of the tent, Tyrande is looking slightly irritated. As she spreads a nightshirt for herself over the back of the only chair by the table and undoes her braids, Maiev asks her if everything is alright. Despite Tyrande’s affirmation, she feels slightly guilty for asking such a dumb favour. 

 

It had been out of weakness. Out of fear, of being lonely with her painful wounds as she had been many a night before, wishing that the ones who had passed away were still with her. She closes her eyes and sees their faces. Naisha, Sira, the other Wardens she had trained. Even a few Illidari who had proved their bravery. Like the one whose name she’d never learnt, yet had still clung to her after a battle, her fel eyes slowly dimming as the life drained form her body. 

 

Tyrande approaches the bed and tells her to move, relocate to underneath the blankets. Mutely, Maiev shifts and pulls the covers over herself. The High Priestess sits on the edge of the bed for a moment longer. Trying to look anywhere else but at her near perfect, toned yet elegant body, Maiev is instead drawn to her own foot, sticking out from underneath the sheets. As with most of her body, a scar runs over the length of it. A deep shame instills itself in her thoughts. What in her right mind was she thinking when asking, no, near begging Tyrande to stay? 

 

As if the Night Warrior can hear her think, she asks: ‘What is on your mind, Maiev?’ 

 

‘You’re like the Goddess herself,’ Maiev blurts out. Then she jolts at her own words, jarring the wound on her back and grunting in mild pain. ‘I’m sorry - I… I didn’t mean to say-’ 

 

‘I am sure Elune would approve,’ Tyrande says as she places a soft hand onto the Warden’s shoulder. 

 

Maiev is ready to pass out from equal parts anxiety, shame and infatuation. And blood loss. As a tender touch strokes the stump she has for a right ear, she shudders. It is the most someone has touched her in years. She allows herself to relax into the hand as it carefully travels up and down the length of her ear. Then Tyrande retreats her hand and the bed dips further as she swings her legs onto the mattress. 

 

‘Are you certain that you’re alright with this? You seem very tense,’ she quietly implores. 

 

Opening her eyes and only then realizing that she had closed them, Maiev takes a shuddering breath. ‘Never expected you to go through with this. But it’s fine… yeah, it’s fine.’ 

 

‘The past is behind us. I see no reason why I should not stay with you now.’ Tyrande brushes absentmindedly over the bandage covering Maiev’s stomach. ‘For some time, after the night I became the Night Warrior, I have been wondering when, and if, you would… open up, a bit more. Now you’ve returned to what is left of us night elves.’ 

 

Maiev wishes she could lie on her side to match Tyrande’s position without threatening to damage her wounds. As the priestess languidly stretches her arms and weaves her fingers through her green hair, the Warden feels a rush of warmth in her cheeks. She hopes it’s not too visible. The nightshirt Tyrande wears bares everything from mid-thigh downwards. It pools around her shoulders and seems to serve to highlight her figure even more. As for herself, Maiev feels as if she is underdressed, wearing only her smallclothes, because Tyrande cut away the rest to treat her wounds. Luckily the rest of her scarred skin is covered with the sheet, she thinks.

 

When the Night Warrior lies down fully and pulls the blankets over the both of them, her natural grace makes Maiev feel all the more cumbersome and inelegant. The soft hand returns to stroking the scars on her face. The Warden feels herself slip into slumber ever so slowly, until the ministrations stop for a moment and Tyrande says, breath ghosting over Maiev’s cheek: ‘You can return the touch, if you wish.’ 

 

~~~~~

 

One large hand comes up to her cheek, tracing figures over the bridge of Tyrande’s nose and up to her eyebrow. Maiev’s fingers are callous, rough from holding on to a glaive for centuries. Her movements are sloppy in their tenderness, with the edge of her nail sometimes catching in the skin. But when she places her thumb on the priestess’ forehead and strokes a line to the base of her ear, Tyrande laughs and hums fondly. Maiev’s glowing eyes find her darkened ones, and the Warden turns her face to the canvas wall, cheeks reddening. 

 

‘I- I can’t. You’ve got the beauty of Elune herself,’ she murmurs, voice muffled by the pillow she tries to hide in. Her hand retreats and settles on the edge of the bandage on her stomach.

 

‘You might be overestimating, just a tad,’ Tyrande chides, blushing lightly herself. 

 

‘Compared to me… I doubt it.’ 

 

‘Maiev, do you know the saying  _ alara'shinu _ ? Finding beauty in imperfection?’ 

 

The Warden laughs through her nose. ‘I’ve heard the druids say it.’ 

 

‘Well then, you best remember it, for it’s very fitting, to you.’ Tracing the edge of the scar that has taken out a part of Maiev’s nose, Tyrande feels her twitch and shudder under the careful touch. After one final stroke down to where her lip is split, the priestess relents and covers Maiev’s hand with hers. 

 

As with the rest of her body, the hand is much larger than her own. Maiev is huge, even for a night elf. Broad shoulders and a muscled stomach that speak of many a battle won. As Tyrande settles her head on Maiev’s shoulder, she feels the Warden’s larger frame relax underneath her. It does not take long for her breaths to get heavy and slow. Sleep finds both elves quickly, that night.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Lemme know if anyone has ideas for a sequel!


End file.
